Saving Face
by pulpbomb
Summary: Sherlock attempts to confront Lestrade over his drunken pronouncement of love for the detective but things do not go as Sherlock planned. Eventual Sherstrade. I'm terrible at summaries. Rating for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"I love you." Sherlock said, plainly.

"No. You don't. And it's fine. you don't have to say that." Lestrade paced back and forth in front of Sherlock seated in his chair.

"Our working relationship won't change. We can just forget last night ever happened and carry on… like all good Brits do."

"What?" Sherlock was confused. That was not the reaction he expected. He thought he had accounted for every variable but there was always something.

Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. "Never mind. Look, I have to get back to work so if there's nothing else?"

Sherlock squinted at the older man. Best to retreat for now. "No… That was all I had to say."

Lestrade turned the left the flat.

Sherlock shook his head. That did not go as he planned at all. He needed to reconsider the situation and plot his course accordingly. Surely Lestrade was just trying to save face.

He did kiss Sherlock soundly the night before, right after confessing he'd long harbored romantic feelings towards the detective. Then the DI had thrown up and stumbled into a cab, leaving Sherlock standing on the pavement alone, confused, thoughtful and surprisingly aroused.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fancy a pint? GL**

**God, yes. Let me check with Mary, see if she needs me to take the baby tonight. JW**

**All set. Meet you at the pub around 8? JW**

**See you then. GL**

John could tell when he arrived at the pub that something was bothering Lestrade but he figured he'd let the older man broach the topic if he wanted. Sometimes, pub nights were just about sharing a few pints and unwinding. Other nights, the two men ended up talking til all hours, commiserating and sharing stories. They started getting together when Sherlock was away (that was how John thought of Sherlock's fake death, 'being away'), continued after John met Mary and through Sherlock's triumphant return.

For most of the night, Greg was fairly quiet. Answered John's questions about work and his kids, asked after Mary and Elizabeth but other than that, the DI was silent, brooding.

After four pints and little conversation, John had enough. "Alright, out with it. What's bothering you?"

Greg shrugged his shoulders half-heartedly. "I'm an idiot, is all. Same old, same old."

"What are you on about?" John bumped his shoulder against Lestrade's. "You're not an idiot. Sure, you may not be a genius like Sherlock but —"

He stopped talking when he saw the other man flinch at Sherlock's name. "Is this about Sherlock?" Greg didn't flinch again but instead seemed to shrink in on himself.

John hated seeing his friend unhappy and aside from when Sherlock revealed himself to be alive, the doctor couldn't remember Lestrade smiling much.

"I don't want to talk about it." Greg drained his glass and nodded to the bartender for another.

John wasn't sure how to proceed. He knew Lestrade had feelings for Sherlock and had since before Sherlock went away. John didn't discover the DI's feelings for his best friend until one night at the pub right after John has met Mary. Lestrade was drunker than usual and told John how his biggest regret was never telling Sherlock he loved him before he died. That it was too late now. How happy he was that John found someone and that John should hold onto tight to her and never let her go.

That was a long time ago. Lestrade never mentioned his feelings for Sherlock after that night and gave every indication he'd moved on or gotten over the detective. Looking back, John realized that Lestrade hadn't really dated anyone regularly. He went on a few dates but nothing stuck. John could see now that Greg was pining for Sherlock and had been too distracted by the great consulting idiot to give anyone else a chance.

Greg leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head in the palm of his hand. "I should stop drinking."

John was thrown by this non sequitur but rolled with it. "Do… you… think you have a problem? Are you drinking more often than usual?"

Greg shifted a bit and turned his head in his hand to look blearily at his friend. "Wha—? No. Nothing like that. It's just… I just… say, or worse **do**, really stupid things when I'm drunk. Sober Greg always has to pay the price for Drunk Greg's stupidity."

"Ah. Any stupid things you've done in particular? Or are you just painting all your drunk actions with a broad cloth?" John sipped at his drink patiently. He knew Greg would come out with it eventually. He just had to wade through the verbal gymnastics it took to get there.

"Sober Greg is a responsible guy, yeah? High enough rank, respected at the Yard. Sure, I have the divorce under my belt but that's practically fashionable now. Plus the kids are nearly grown and honestly they took it better than me or the ex." Greg reached for his glass, missed and sloshed beer on his hand. "Ah, fuck." He slurped at his hand and used his jacket to mop up the spill.

John reached over and thrust a napkin at him. "Stop using your sleeve, you berk. And I think you've had enough for now." John moved the half empty glass away from Lestrade before he signaled over to the bartender and got his friend a water and some more napkins.

"See, Drunk Greg is messy, too!" Lestrade struggled out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of his stool. "Can't do anything right."

"Lestrade, come on. Everyone is messy when they're drunk that's where the phrase 'sloppy drunk' comes from. It's a thing! It's not just you. What did you say, or do, that's got you in such a twist?"

Lestrade dropped his head in the crook of his elbow. He muttered something into his shirt.

John leaned a bit closer to hear Lestrade. "What's that? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want. Just sometimes, talking can help."

"I said, I told Sherlock I loved him and then I kissed him." Greg said, loudly. Thankfully the pub was loud and no one heard his declaration.

John nodded. "About time, mate. How'd he react?"

"Wha—? Huh? What?" Lestrade shook his head and scrubbed his face. "He didn't. I left. Then the next day, he asked me to come by Baker St and like a fool, I went. Sherlock told me he loved me. Which is bollocks and I told him so and then I left. Again."

John shook his head slowly. "Seems like Drunk Greg is handling things better than Sober Greg right about now."

Lestrade wasn't certain he was hearing John correctly. "What?"

"You were right earlier, Greg. You **are** an idiot," John said, plainly.

"What?" seemed to be the only word Greg was capable of thinking or saying. So he said it again.

"You know how hard it is for Sherlock to do what he did right? Tell you he returns your feelings? To talk about his feelings at all? And you what? Told him he was wrong and left? And let me guess, you've avoided him since then, am I right?" John slanted a look at his friend, who nodded sheepishly.

"Well, you've got yourself in a right situation. You need to fix this. Sherlock likes to pretend he doesn't care or that he doesn't feel emotions like the rest of us, and maybe he's right. Because he feels them so much deeper and stronger than ordinary people do. Why do you think he wraps himself up in so many layers of disdain and derision? His attitude is his armor. Plus his ridiculous coat." John paused and finished his drink.

Greg gaped at him and said in a small voice, "I **like** his coat."

John ignored that interjection and continued. "The way I see it, you threw his feelings in his face so I wouldn't be surprised if he's got his shields up to full strength. But I know you do love him, you have for ages. And he loves you back. And that's wonderful and worth fighting for." John stood and put on his jacket. He rested a hand on Lestrade's shoulder and the other man looked up at him.

"So, go fight for him." With that parting shot, John left Greg to mull over what he said and plan his next move.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade thought about what John said all weekend. He picked up his phone again and again to call Sherlock but he kept chickening out and setting his mobile aside. When Sherlock told him he loved him, Lestrade had dismissed it as bullshit platitudes from the detective. But the Sherlock Greg knew would never say something like that in such a manner. Lestrade could kick himself for being so curt and dismissive of the younger man. Of course he was being genuine.

John was right, he had really bollocksed things up with Sherlock. The problem was, Greg had no idea how to fix the situation.

He grabbed his phone determined to at least talk to the detective. He called but Sherlock refused to answer. So he resorted to texting.

**I'm sorry, Sherlock. I fucked up. GL**

**Please, can we talk? GL**

**Sherlock? GL**

**No. SH**

**Come on. Can I see you? GL**

**Piss off, Lestrade. SH**

**Sherlock, please. I'll even bring over some cold case files. GL**

**I'm not a child you can bribe with treats. SH**

**It's not like that. GL**

**Leave me alone. You've made your feelings perfectly clear. SH**

Lestrade sighed as he read the latest text from Sherlock. He didn't blame the detective for not wanting to see him.

Weeks passed. Sherlock ignored all Greg's efforts to see him. He refused any requests to help with Met cases. John told Lestrade to be patient.

Lestrade took to sending Sherlock just one text a day. "Thinking of you." "You'd have solved this case in a day. Took us three." "Heard a violin soloist on BBC - you're better." They sounded trite and hollow to Lestrade but he didn't know what else to do.

Sherlock never responded but it made Greg feel slightly better to reach out somehow while being as unobtrusive as possible.

However, after two weeks of daily texting, Lestrade was starting to feel like a stalker. He decided not to send any more texts to Sherlock, starting now. The other man had made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with him.

—

One Friday afternoon, Lestrade realized his phone battery had died. He plugged in the charger and the phone booted back up. He saw he'd missed a text from John earlier in the day.

**Give him time. He'll get over it. JW**

Lestrade grabbed his office phone and called his friend.

"Hello Lestrade" John's voice sounded rough, like he was fighting a cold.

"John, hi. Are you alright? You sound sick."

"Just a bit of a chest cold. It's going around. Risk of being a locum doctor and all that."

"Ah, yes. Anyway, I think I need to back off with Sherlock. It's killing me the way I left things but I can't… I don't…" Greg paused and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I know you said to fight for him, John, but how am I supposed to do that when I can't even get him to talk to me?"

There was silence on the other end of the line.

"John? You still there?"

"Yes, sorry. My throat was, er, blocked. I'm fine. I heard you. So, what? You're just giving up? On the man you claim to love?" John said harshly.

"I don't **claim** to love him, John, I do love him! But if he doesn't want to talk to me, shouldn't I give him space?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know, Lestrade. You have to do what you think is right."

"That's the problem. I don't know what to do. It's just… The thought of him hurting because of me, because of what I said. I can't just let it go. I need him to know how badly I regret the way I handled things. I'll do anything to show him how much I love him."

Another long silence on the other end was followed by the sound of John coughing violently.

"Jesus, John, you sound like shit."

"My throat is closing up, Lestrade, I have to go."

"Alright, thanks, John. Feel better soon."

Lestrade hung up, determined to keep trying to get through to Sherlock, no matter what it took.

He grabbed his mobile from where it was charging and Sherlock a text.

**I miss you. I'm sorry. GL**

He dropped his phone and got back to work.

The next day, Lestrade spent his entire shift slogging through paperwork. After grabbing a sandwich with Sally for lunch, he heard his phone's signal an incoming text. He pulled out his phone to see it was from Sherlock. Holy shit.

"Sally, I have to deal with this. I expect your files by the end of the day."

Sally nodded, "On it, boss."

Lestrade went into his office and looked at the newest text on his phone.

**Why are you insisting on clogging my inbox with sentimental claptrap? SH**

Lestrade stared at his mobile in disbelief. He wasn't quite certain how to respond. He thought a moment before composing his reply.

**Does this mean you're saving my texts? & you call me sentimental. GL**

His incoming message chime sounded almost immediately.

**Shut up. SH**

**Make me. GL**

**I don't know what you want from me. SH**

Looking at Sherlock's last text, Lestrade realized that was the problem.

**I just want to talk to you. Can I please come by? GL**

**Fine. C****ome to Baker St this evening if it means you will stop inundating me with inanities. SH**

**Thanks. I'll be by after my shift. GL**

—

Sherlock was pacing the length of his sitting room when Lestrade arrived at Baker Street.

"Good, you're here." The detective pointed at the sofa for Lestrade to sit and gestured to his phone. "What is the meaning of this? The barrage of messages?"

Greg sat and considered his words carefully. "A text a day is hardly a barrage, Sherlock."

The younger man rolled his eyes and Lestrade gave him a half smile.

"I just… I know I messed up with you and I don't know how to fix it. I don't blame you for shutting me out of your life. The text messages were a small way to let you know I was thinking of you."

Sherlock looked at him sharply. "But why would you be thinking of me? You rejected my declaration of love. I would think you would do all you could to **not** think of me." He flopped down dramatically in his arm chair and ruffled his hair in frustration. "I don't understand you, Lestrade."

"Oh, Sherlock. It doesn't work like that. The heart wants what it wants. I think of you every day. I wonder what you're doing, if you have a case on, if you're composing, if you're eating properly, if you're still having nightmares, if you meant what you said that day…" Greg trailed off, realizing he said too much. So much for easing into that conversation.

Sherlock sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Of course I meant what I said. I rarely say things I don't mean."

Lestrade simply looked at the younger man, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock shifted in his seat. "Alright, I often say things I don't mean. But not to you. Never to you."

"I have no excuse, Sherlock. I was scared and I couldn't let myself hope you were being straight with me. You know better than anyone how ex-wife did a number on me, emotionally. After I told you… that night… I convinced myself it was a mistake and then when you said… what you said —"

Sherlock broke in, "That I love you." Lestrade flushed and looked down at the floor.

"I panicked. Stupid, I know. But I thought you were just saying what I wanted to hear. Or that you felt you owed me or something. That it wasn't genuine. Couldn't be. But I know that's not fair to you. I just… It came out of nowhere. I didn't know how to react. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have been so dismissive." Greg stood and went into the kitchen. "You mind if I make tea?"

"No, it's fine."

"Want some?" Greg looked over his shoulder to see that Sherlock trailing behind him.

"No, thank you." Sherlock crossed one foot over the other and leaned against the doorjamb.

"Lestrade, did you mean what you said on the phone yesterday?"

Greg turned around and looked at the detective with confusion. "What? I didn't talk to you yesterday. I talked to John… Oh, you sneaky fucker. That was you."

Sherlock smirked and shrugged a shoulder. "He left his phone here. The man is constantly forgetting things. So really, you can blame him."

Lestrade shook his head. Typical Sherlock. "I gather he's not sick then?"

"No, he's fine. Don't avoid the question. Did you mean what you said?"

"Which part?"

"All of it, but especially the part where you regret how you treated me when I told you how I felt."

Lestrade took a step closer to the younger man but still left room between the two of them. He met Sherlock's brilliant eyes.

"God yes. I'd give anything to have that day back. But that's impossible. I can only promise you, I'll do my best not to hurt you like that again."

Sherlock offered him a tentative smile. "I'll hold you to that."

Lestrade grinned back and turned back to make the tea.


	4. Chapter 4

After the kettle boiled and the tea steeped, the two men returned to the sitting room. Sherlock sat in his armchair and Lestrade perched in the chair that would always be John's. Greg didn't know where to look or what to say so he focused his attention on blowing cool air on his tea and trying not to fidget under Sherlock's penetrative gaze.

Sherlock sipped his tea placidly before speaking. "I knew I wanted you the first day we met. I know you think I don't remember it because I was high, but I recall every moment. From the way you held me upright against your chest to the feel of your hand brushing the hair away from my face to your fingers on my neck, checking my pulse. If Mycroft hadn't shown when he did, I would have propositioned you right then."

Sherlock met Greg's surprised look and the detective's bright eyes darkened and became hooded. Lestrade gaped at him and his trousers suddenly seemed too tight. Sherlock noticed his sudden discomfort and gave a wicked smile, continuing on.

"You would have rejected me outright, being far too moral to seemingly take advantage of someone in an altered state but I would have persisted. The one thing I missed was your wedding band. You weren't wearing it but the thin pale line on your finger, that I should have seen. But I was high and, quite frankly, blinded by your presence."

Greg took a bracing sip of his tea and cleared his throat. "I'd, erm, broken my hand and when it healed my ring no longer fit. I was having it sized when we met."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I realized that after the fact. I admired you from a distance afterwards. Took to insulting you and your team because I loved seeing you defend them or get irritated with me. You're very sexy when your angry, Greg."

Lestrade was having a difficult time reconciling the Sherlock he'd always known with this remarkably frank and surprisingly sexual person in front of him. Part of him knew Sherlock was being honest with him, knew the detective wouldn't be having him on like this… But, in the back of his mind, an insidious voice, that sounded a lot like his ex-wife, whispered that nothing he was hearing was real and that he was making a fool of himself. Greg squashed those thoughts, knowing it was that voice that led him to reject Sherlock in the first place. The greater part of him knew he deserved to be happy and that there was a possibility that he could be happy with the man he loved. Who loved him in return. He forced himself to pay close attention to what the younger pan was saying.

"… when you and your wife finally split for good, I was going to seduce you. I had it all planned. It would've been incredible. But when Moriarty reemerged my focus had to be on stopping him, solving his puzzles. Then I died." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, as though faking your death was an everyday or unavoidable occurrence.

Greg hung his head, his chin resting against his chest. He hated thinking of Sherlock's death and the role he played in it. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I should've fought harder for you. Kept Sally and Anderson away from the DCI —"

The younger man cut him off. "Nonsense. You were doing your job. You tried to help me. I couldn't let you. I had to play Moriarty's game. I thought I'd accounted for every possibility when I went onto that roof. I knew there was a chance I would have to fake my death but I thought I knew how to stop him. It was when he told me you, Mrs. Hudson and John would die if I didn't kill myself that I knew I had to go through with my plan."

Lestrade jerked his head up and spilled cooling tea on his leg. "What?! What did you just say?"

Sherlock frowned at him and his reaction. "Surely Mycroft told you after my return there were snipers on you three. The three people Moriarty knew I cared for the most. Well, besides Molly but Moriarty underestimated my esteem for her. Mycroft said he debriefed you upon my return."

Greg placed his cup on the table beside him with a trembling hand. "Bloody hell! No, he didn't mention that. Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Jesus Christ. Bloody buggering fuck." Greg felt that his lungs stopped working and started to hyperventilate.

Sherlock was kneeling beside him in a flash, a cool hand on the back of his neck, his voice low and soothing in the older man's ear. "Breathe, Greg. It's alright. I'm here. I didn't really die and you're safe and that's the most important thing."

Greg clutched blindly for Sherlock's free hand and the detective squeezed the back of his neck in response. Lestrade focused on his breathing and the feel of Sherlock's hands, one clasped in his own and the other a steady presence on the back of his neck. When he could speak he turned his head to meet the younger man's concerned gaze. "I thought I helped drive you to your death. And it turns out, in a way I did!"

"No," Sherlock said sharply. "That was Moriarty not you. I would've done anything to keep you three safe. If I had to actually die, I would've."

Greg squeezed the hand he held until he felt the knuckles grind together and saw Sherlock hid a grimace. "Shut the fuck up, Sherlock. Don't you ever say that. You don't get to decide to die for me."

Sherlock rubbed the back of the other man's neck in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "Why not? So often when I was away, wondering if I'd ever make it back or survive my mission, I'd think of you and find the will to live. To fight and push through. It was when this kept happening that I realized my esteem and attraction for you had blossomed into something deeper. It was overwhelming, to put it mildly. I had no idea how to cope with such emotions."

"And I turned you away. I'm so sorry. I was scared. I screwed everything up." Lestrade turned slightly and buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. Sherlock moved the hand on Greg's neck to wrap his arm around the older man's shoulders.

"Hush. So you said. It's over and done with now. You love me and I return the sentiment. The rest will work itself out." Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the silver hair on the DI's temple.

Lestrade let his body relax against the younger man and breathed in the scent unique to Sherlock. Sherlock shifted slightly, enjoying the closeness but feeling pins and needles in his legs from crouching for so long.

Slowly, telegraphing his intent, Sherlock rose from his crouch and perched on the arm of Greg's chair, keeping his arm around the other man's shoulders.

Lestrade turned his head to look up at Sherlock. "Can we start over? Just, take it slow and see where it goes for us?"

Sherlock shook his head and Lestrade visibly deflated. "I don't want to start over. I agree we shouldn't rush things as we're both of us new to this relationship."

A wide grin split Greg's face, "So we're in a relationship?"

"Of course we are, you think I'm letting a catch like you get away?" Sherlock teased, his other hand coming up to trace the DI's strong jaw.

Lestrade turned his head and pressed a kiss to the younger man's palm. "I don't know about that, I've gone grey and I'm getting soft around the middle. I'd say you're the catch, sunshine."

"Please, I'm barely sociable and prone to 'sulking like a three year old in a strop' according to John." He was pleased to hear Lestrade laugh as was his intent. "Besides, I love your hair. I'll call you my silver fox."

"Silver fox, huh? Can we keep that between us? I don't need a new nickname at the Yard." Lestrade ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, making it stand on end.

Sherlock quirked a brow. "Of course we can, if you wants. Why? What's your nickname now?"

"'Old grumpy bastard'."

Sherlock chuckled and leaned down to press a kiss to Greg's lips, gentle and soft. He pulled back slightly and smiled at the dreamy look on the older man's face.

"Okay?" Sherlock asked.

"More than," Greg replied before reaching his hand up to drag Sherlock down for another, deeper kiss. It soon became something heated, their mouths slanting together, tongues dancing. Sherlock slid off the arm of the chair and straddled the other man.

Lestrade moaned as the weight of Sherlock's body settled on top of his own. He wrapped one arm around Sherlock's torso and slid his other hand through the silky curls atop the younger man's head. He felt he could never get Sherlock close enough, could never express how badly he wanted him, how much he loved him.

What started out as a simple reassurance quickly blossomed into need and want. Sherlock shifted his hips and Greg groaned into his mouth, nipping at the plush lower lip, biting hard enough to hurt slightly. Greg moved his hands down to Sherlock's hips and held him firmly, feeling their clothed erections grind together, creating a delicious friction. Their kiss turned desperate, open mouthed, teeth clashing, tongues twisting together. They panted into each other's mouth, unwilling to pull away for something so intangible as breath.

Sherlock slides his hands under Greg's t-shirt, impatient to feel the soft skin over firm muscle there. Lestrade hisses when he feels Sherlock's long, violinist fingers lightly dance over his skin, playing him like his beloved instrument.

Greg pulls Sherlock's button down shirt from the waistband of his trousers. With trembling hands he unfastens the black trousers and impatiently shoves them and pants aside. Sherlock's cock springs free and Lestrade grips it, savoring the smoothly velvet feel of the pulsing flesh, the way it swells further in his hand. Sherlock throws his head back in pleasure and thrusts into Greg's fist.

Sherlock quickly opens Lestrade's jeans and they both groan when their erections slide together. Greg wraps their cocks together in his hand, precome from both tips slicking his grasp as he works his hand up and down their shafts. His pace falters when he feel Sherlock's long fingers join his around their cocks.

"Yes, right there." Greg grunts and moves his hips, thrusting into the warm embrace of their joined hands, reveling in the feel of his cock sliding smoothly against Sherlock's.

"Jesus, Greg… feels so good. Not gonna last." Sherlock whispers against Greg's lips.

"Yeah, come for me. I want to feel you come." Greg growls before thrusting his tongue back into the most heat of Sherlock's mouth.

He feels rather than hears Sherlock's "Oh!" and then the younger mans's hips stutter and the warmth of his release coats their fingers. Greg thrusts once, twice before joining Sherlock, tumbling over the edge into ecstasy.

Sherlock collapses against him, his sweaty forehead resting on Greg's shoulder and they both take a few moments to savor their orgasms. After a few moments, Greg turns his head and presses a kiss against the shell of Sherlock's ear.

"Well," he says. "So much for taking it slowly."


End file.
